My stepdad keeps threatening to kill my mom and I wrote about it. This isn’t the first time he’s made death threats, but it is the first time anyone has talked about it outside our house. Womp womp. Sorry, Mom. (I’m not really sorry.)

I’ve gotten really into making to-do lists and putting things on my Google calendar and then sharing the mundane details with my boyfriend or my friend Eve, who probably don’t really look at them but haven’t asked me to stop forwarding the details along so I keep doing it. I can’t remember why I picked up this habit but I’m glad did because I realized that if I write something down, I won’t put off doing it/neglect to do it at all. I also realized that if I show my lists to my boyfriend or Eve, I’ll feel more accountable – even though neither one of them could give two shits whether I attend this new Tuesday weightlifting class at my gym or whatever stupid thing I tell them I want to do. This idea of publicizing your goals for motivational purposes isn’t a new one, but it’s something I’m finally seeing the value in and now I’m finally doing things I’ve always secretly wanted to do. I’m sure some of that has to do with getting more self-confidence or something too, but who knows.

The only thing I keep putting on my to-do list but not doing is regularly updating this blog. Like, I just put an “update blog” time slot on my Google calendar and then groaned and deleted it. I don’t know, but every time I think about filling this thing with info about my day-to-day, I get exhausted. But I can’t stop obsessing over the fact that I’m not writing about my day-to-day in here because I kept a blog through all of high school and college that I updated constantly with deeply personal insights for all my friends (and “friends”) to read. It was really important to me that I document every detail about everything so I never forgot. Then I fell off it because I graduated college and became so depressed I couldn’t do anything, and once I pulled out of that dark place, I wasn’t interested in blogging anymore.

And I think that’s what I’m beating myself up over: the fact that I’m turning into a less sentimental person. Or rather, I’m turning into someone who no longer sees the value in saving and savoring every little memory, every inside joke, in a little text box in cyberspace. Maybe this is me maturing, or me being less depressed, and is a good thing, but I still don’t like it.